~1~
She runs, and as she runs, she feels the soles of her feet slap the cobblestones. They're tough now, her feet, worn, and no longer can she feel the glass and sharp stones in the streets, the things that used to hurt her so she cried. She can't cry now. She's not slept in two nights, and her eyes are so sore and burning that the salt water of the crying made her want to scream. So she made her tears go away. She's good at that sort of thing now. She can feel the skirt of her shift riding up around her thighs, and the sleeve of the blouse slip off her shoulder again, for what must be the thousandth time. Is this what repels M'sieur Marius? It's everything about her, though, not just the shift. He's terrified of her, of her unhandsome face, of her unwashedness, of her torn clothes and the way she tries to make her voice go soft when she speaks to him. She loves him, and it is love, not just a silly girl's lust as her father says, she loves him, and he's frightened of her. So she'll run away from him, away from him and the Lark and the hell they put her in.
Her head is bowed as she runs, protecting her from the stares of the others, of the everyone elses, who she hates. She doesn't watch where she runs, because her sorrow is so great that everyone should know to get out of her way, everyone should see her pain and let her pass by, a desperate shadow. She knows she should've expected it when she smashes into the young man, but she didn't, she thought he's move for her, and her breath is gone as she tumbles to the ground.
With a start, she notices that the tooth which has been hurting her for a few days is not in its proper place. Her tongue searches her mouth, and at last finds the lump in her cheek. Meanwhile, the young man is regarding her with interest. He puts out a hand before her face, and orders in a soft, firm voice with hints of laughter, though not at her, "Spit." She does so, and he ruefully wipes his hand on his trousers, then holds up the blackened ivory of her tooth. He sighs.
"Pity. Enjolras tells us to protect the poor, and I go about knocking their teeth out. Mademoiselle, you must forgive me."
But she's not listening. She's looking at him for the first time properly, and she's noticed something distinctly odd about him. Seeing her eyes fixed on his head, he turns them heavenward, as if attempting to see what she does.
"Ah yes. And that, mademoiselle, is why I am called Bossuet."
"Bossuet?" she questions, eying him with an untrusting gaze. "That's not a name."
"All right, very well. It's Camile L'aigle. And what is yours?"
"Éponine Jondrette."
"What a lovely, musical name. May I call you 'Ponine?"
She pauses a moment, weighing her opinions of him. Finally, with an inclination of her dirty head, she consents. "'Ponine." And she can't help but notice how gentle his hand is as he helps her to her feet.
She runs, and as she runs, she feels the soles of her feet slap the cobblestones. They're tough now, her feet, worn, and no longer can she feel the glass and sharp stones in the streets, the things that used to hurt her so she cried. She can't cry now. She's not slept in two nights, and her eyes are so sore and burning that the salt water of the crying made her want to scream. So she made her tears go away. She's good at that sort of thing now. She can feel the skirt of her shift riding up around her thighs, and the sleeve of the blouse slip off her shoulder again, for what must be the thousandth time. Is this what repels M'sieur Marius? It's everything about her, though, not just the shift. He's terrified of her, of her unhandsome face, of her unwashedness, of her torn clothes and the way she tries to make her voice go soft when she speaks to him. She loves him, and it is love, not just a silly girl's lust as her father says, she loves him, and he's frightened of her. So she'll run away from him, away from him and the Lark and the hell they put her in.
Her head is bowed as she runs, protecting her from the stares of the others, of the everyone elses, who she hates. She doesn't watch where she runs, because her sorrow is so great that everyone should know to get out of her way, everyone should see her pain and let her pass by, a desperate shadow. She knows she should've expected it when she smashes into the young man, but she didn't, she thought he's move for her, and her breath is gone as she tumbles to the ground.
With a start, she notices that the tooth which has been hurting her for a few days is not in its proper place. Her tongue searches her mouth, and at last finds the lump in her cheek. Meanwhile, the young man is regarding her with interest. He puts out a hand before her face, and orders in a soft, firm voice with hints of laughter, though not at her, "Spit." She does so, and he ruefully wipes his hand on his trousers, then holds up the blackened ivory of her tooth. He sighs.
"Pity. Enjolras tells us to protect the poor, and I go about knocking their teeth out. Mademoiselle, you must forgive me."
But she's not listening. She's looking at him for the first time properly, and she's noticed something distinctly odd about him. Seeing her eyes fixed on his head, he turns them heavenward, as if attempting to see what she does.
"Ah yes. And that, mademoiselle, is why I am called Bossuet."
"Bossuet?" she questions, eying him with an untrusting gaze. "That's not a name."
"All right, very well. It's Camile L'aigle. And what is yours?"
"Éponine Jondrette."
"What a lovely, musical name. May I call you 'Ponine?"
She pauses a moment, weighing her opinions of him. Finally, with an inclination of her dirty head, she consents. "'Ponine." And she can't help but notice how gentle his hand is as he helps her to her feet.